


Shade

by kaiteki



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sort Of, Sunburn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiteki/pseuds/kaiteki
Summary: A day at the beach should, by every available definition, be a fun and relaxing time.Unless you're Lee Jihoon, who forgets to apply sunscreen.
Relationships: Lee Jihoon | Woozi & Everyone
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	Shade

**Author's Note:**

> my woozi lovefest (with gentle suffering) continues. it's winter where i am, but the lovefest is for all seasons.
> 
> this got a lot longer than i expected.

Being an idol is exhausting, but not without its perks.

For example, having an entire beach house reserved for a day?

Not a bad perk at all.

Granted, they’d arrived earlier that morning for a shoot, but with everything wrapped up by mid-afternoon and the house booked until the following day, everyone is excited to make use of the downtime.

“It’s like TTT!” Chan cheers, heading toward the house to grab the volleyball equipment he’d spotted on their way in, “Except we won’t, you know…”

“Get wasted?” Hansol supplies, sending a glance Soonyoung’s way.

“Right,” Chan agrees, “that.”

Alcohol or not, they’ll figure out a way to have a good time.

For Jihoon personally, that involves camping out in one of the beach chairs that was set up during the shoot, underneath an umbrella that was _also_ set up during the shoot, which means he can sit and do _nothing_ and not have to lift a finger to achieve premium comfort.

It literally does not get better than this.

“Jihoonie-yah, come plaaaaaay!” someone calls, pulling him away from his momentary bliss. Though he knows the members’ voices by heart, the sounds of the wind and crashing waves make it impossible to distinguish. He lifts his head in search of the source, breaking out into a grin when he sees Soonyoung doing some weird kind of…interpretive dance? Or maybe that’s him miming a game of volleyball.

He’s never exactly seen the world the same way as everyone else.

“I’m good,” Jihoon waves him off, enjoying the exaggerated pout he receives in response. But he _is_ good—and far too comfortable to so much as _think_ of leaving this chair.

“A lazy afternoon for you, hyung?” Mingyu asks, patting him on the shoulder as he passes by.

Jihoon narrows his eyes over the frames of his sunglasses. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Mingyu smiles, “It’s a free day, so do whatever you want. Enjoy your nap!” he sprints off toward the volleyball group, which is already quibbling loudly amongst itself over how to set up the net.

Bold of him to assume Jihoon is going to nap. There are plenty of things he could do from this chair, frankly. He could read a book. Surf the internet. Mentally compose a song. Solve world hunger, probably.

Okay, well, maybe not _that_. But lots of stuff, to be sure.

However, thinking of all the things he could potentially do is making him sleepy. The warm breeze, the sound of waves, and the distant call of seagulls are _also_ making him sleepy. The not-so-distant voices of his members trying to destroy each other with a volleyball, too. It all just makes him. Kind of sleepy.

He pulls down the brim of his hat to block out the extra light.

Reading and web-surfing and mental composing will have to wait.

* * *

  
“ _Jihoonie…_ ” someone is calling his name, sounding both far away and far too close. He scrunches his eyes shut tight, willing this person to _go away_ , because he is _so_ comfortable and he’d been sleeping _so_ well…

Someone flicks the brim of his cap up and off of his face. Are they _trying_ to piss him off? Because it’s working. He musters up the meanest expression he can manage while only half-conscious, swatting at his unknown assailant from the confines of the beach chair.

His reach falls short, and he hears the person—Soonyoung, _of course_ —laughing. “C’mon, we’re making dinner. Mingyu’s grilling. You don’t wanna miss out.”

Jihoon has to begrudgingly admit he’s right, he definitely does _not_ want to miss out. Whatever Mingyu makes, it’s bound to disappear at lightning speed if he doesn’t act fast. He pries himself out of the chair, pointedly ignoring Soonyoung’s offered hand.

What he _can’t_ ignore, though, is the odd look the choreographer is giving him as he collects his phone and sandals.

“ _What?_ ” he asks, uncomfortable when the staring goes on for too long.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Soonyoung tilts his head to the side, considering, “…you got sun, I think.”

Jihoon looks up to the sky as if the sun itself will offer some sort of explanation. It doesn’t, obviously, but he realizes that the nice shady spot provided by the beach umbrella over his chair had, during the course of his nap, migrated a good two meters to the left. No wonder he felt so warm.

“Is it bad?” he asks.

“No…” Soonyoung’s hesitation isn’t exactly reassuring. Jihoon wants to interrogate him further—if he shows up to dinner with some shitty sunglasses tan, he’s going to be teased relentlessly—but then Seungcheol calls to them from the upper deck:

“Meat’s on the grill, every man for himself! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

All thoughts of the sun disappear in the mad dash for the house.

* * *

  
In a prior life, Mingyu was definitely some kind of chef.

Everyone is talking, laughing, battling over scraps of meat and these incredible vegetable skewer things—honestly, where does he even come _up_ with this stuff?

He’s pretending to be flustered by all the praise, but anyone who’s known him for more than fifteen minutes can see he’s basking in the flattery. It’s cute. He deserves it. Feeding thirteen people is no easy feat. He has the right to be proud of himself.

Despite the fact that he’s hungry, Jihoon finds himself exhausted by the food scuffle long before the others seem ready to give it up. He plops down at one of the picnic tables, cradling a half-empty can of Coke between his hands. Even though the deck is nice and shady at this time of day, he still feels overheated and sort of drowsy. He shouldn’t have slept so long. Maybe some exercise would have done him good.

He’s surprised when Jeonghan suddenly slides onto the bench across from him, holding out a fresh skewer. Jihoon blinks, pointing to himself questioningly. Jeonghan nods, waving it in his face until he finally takes it.

“Thanks, hyung,” he says, both touched and happy to be fed without having to join the battle.

“Sure,” Jeonghan nods, biting a chunk of sweet potato off of his own skewer, “you looked lonely.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “I’m not, just—” he gestures toward Mingyu’s crowd, “—you know. Tired. But thanks, though, really.”

“You slept all afternoon,” Jeonghan is frowning now, which Jihoon hadn’t expected. “Are you feeling okay?”

“You’re not a person who should be criticizing others' sleeping habits, hyung,” he tries to deflect. He’s aware of the scrutiny in Jeonghan’s gaze. He doesn’t like it, the sensation of being studied. It’s not like he has anything to _hide_ , but the feeling that he can’t be trusted to be upfront about his own wellbeing is a little—

“You’re pretty red,” Jeonghan observes, brows furrowing, “from like, the nose down. Your shoulders, too, and your arms. And here,” he demonstrates on himself, hand flat against his upper chest—an area covered by his own t-shirt but exposed by Jihoon’s tank top. “Did you put sunscreen on?”

There’s no good way to answer that question, because _no_ , he hadn’t. He lets his silence speak for itself.

“Oh, Jihoon…” Jeonghan sighs, reaching out to press light fingertips to his cheek. There’s no way for Jihoon to have predicted how cold that would feel, and no way for him to suppress the shudder that follows. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head.

“It’s going to,” Jeonghan says, less like a prediction and more like a promise. “I wonder if anyone packed aloe. What were you thinking—that the shade was gonna stick with you all day?”

He hadn’t been thinking, really. That’s the problem. His thought process had gone as far as, ‘There’s a chair, and I’m gonna sit in it.’ Maybe he should be grateful for the sunburn, because he’s sure his face would be flushed with embarrassment by this point.

Jeonghan waves someone over, and Jihoon wonders if he’s about to be made fun of. It _is_ kind of funny, from an objective point of view, but if this is really going to hurt later, he’d rather be spared the teasing.

It’s just Seungkwan, though, and he quickly realizes the reason for that choice. Out of all of them, Seungkwan is one of the most notorious over-packers, and also the most diligent about skincare. If Jeonghan is out to find someone with aloe, Seungkwan is the natural choice.

He realizes what’s going on before either of them even speaks. Without saying so much as one word to Jeonghan, he’s staring down at Jihoon, asking, “Oh, hyung, did you…?”

Jeonghan saves him from having to explain himself, quickly describing the situation.

“Yeah, I have a whole thing of aloe,” Seungkwan confirms. “You should shower under cool water first, though, and take something for inflammation. Does it hurt yet?” he echoes Jeonghan’s earlier question.

Again, Jihoon shakes his head.

Although Seungkwan doesn’t give him the same foreboding ‘It’s going to’, his face says it all. “Okay, well…why don’t you take the medication right away, to start treating it before it gets really painful, and then when you’re done with dinner, shower?”

“I’m done now,” Jihoon says, pulling his final piece of grilled mushroom off of the skewer with his teeth. He feels tired and embarrassed and incredibly annoyed with himself. He doesn’t consider himself vain in the slightest, but being an idol _does_ come along with the expectation of keeping up one’s appearance, especially with skincare. While his usual routine is pretty much the bare minimum, he could’ve at least managed _sunscreen_.

Maybe it’s because of his tone of voice just then, but Seungkwan looks hesitant to continue. A bubble of guilt wells up in Jihoon’s stomach, because any crankiness in his words or on his face was definitely not directed at anyone but himself.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, relieved when Seungkwan’s expression relaxes, “I’m just—it’s—I feel stupid, I guess.”

Jeonghan coos something ridiculous about Jihoon being a baby, and _there’s_ somebody he might like to fight.

“It’s alright, hyung,” Seungkwan insists, standing from the bench, “I saw like, twenty other people on the beach today with burns _way_ worse than yours. You’re in good company.”

Jihoon isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or worse, but he smiles anyway. “Thanks.”

“Come on, then. Meds first, then shower, then aloe. Before the suffering sets in.”

Jihoon follows obediently behind, wiping his sandy feet on the doormat before stepping inside. Although he hadn’t noticed a clear shift in skin tone underneath the shade of the deck, he can _definitely_ see it now. Both his arms and shoulders are practically glowing. _This is really going to hurt_ , he thinks, weirdly detached because it doesn’t hurt _now._ Experimentally, he presses the palm of his right hand to his left shoulder. The skin is blazingly hot to the touch.

It’s really, _really_ going to hurt.

But it doesn’t yet, so he rummages around in his bag for pajamas, picking out the largest and most breathable t-shirt he’d packed.

Seungkwan meets him in the bathroom, bringing along three little pills, a glass of water, the bottle of aloe, and…a thermometer?

His confusion about the last item must show on his face, because Seungkwan hurriedly explains, “Sunburns sometimes cause fever and chills. It’s not usually dangerous, but in case you start feeling really bad later on, I just thought it might be good to check.”

Seungkwan is smart—if a bit over-cautious—and he wouldn’t be badgering his team leader with something _completely_ ridiculous and unnecessary, so Jihoon wordlessly holds out his hand.

Reassured, Seungkwan passes it over. Jihoon has an unusual childhood flashback just then—the sensation of sitting on the closed lid of the toilet seat, cool metal tip of the thermometer under his tongue, his mom running her fingers through his hair, waiting for the beep. He’d had strep throat, he thinks.

This thermometer provides a number much faster than the one from fifteen years ago, though. And, of course, he doesn’t have strep throat.

However, he _does_ apparently have a fever, if the frown now adorning Seungkwan’s lips is anything to go by.

“What is it?” he asks, wishing he’d looked for himself before handing the stupid thing back.

“37.8,” Seungkwan’s frown deepens.

Jihoon shrugs. That’s not _really_ a fever, just a slightly elevated temperature. And he’d been sitting in the sun all day, so what should he expect? He voices these thoughts to Seungkwan, who offers his own shrug in return.

“I guess it’s just something to keep an eye on. The ibuprofen should help, anyway. You don’t feel sick or dizzy?”

A shake of his head. “Just tired.”

Seungkwan seems to find that comforting. “Okay, well, take these,” he hands the pills over, “and this,” the glass of water. “You should drink the whole thing. It’s important to hydrate. For your skin.”

Jihoon downs the water, inwardly wondering when he’d started letting the dongsaeng boss him around. He abruptly realizes he’d never even looked at his own face, too preoccupied with finding a place to put his clothes and towel. He sets the now-empty glass beside the sink, standing to peer curiously into the mirror.

The brim of his hat had saved him from a sunglasses outline, instead leaving him with a clear division between healthy and burnt skin starting halfway down his nose. His cheeks are red, and so are his ears. The front of his neck, probably covered by his chin, looks fine, but his upper chest clearly had no such protection. His shoulders and arms look terrible as well—but he’d already known that much. He twists sideways, trying to see his back, but he must not have moved around much in his sleep (as if he could have, in that chair) so everything else had been spared.

Except his lower thighs, knees, shins, and the tops of his feet.

Watching what he’d been doing, Seungkwan smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, you’re really—well, I guess it’s good that you usually sleep on your back anyway, right?”

Having no better answer, Jihoon twists the shower knob on.

Seungkwan takes that as his cue to go, but not before instructing, “Make the water as cool as you can stand, and put a layer of aloe on everything that’s burnt as soon as you get out. And if you feel like—okay, okay, I’m going!” the final exclamation delivered as Jihoon shuts the door in his face.

He loves Seungkwan—he really does—but even burnt to a crisp, he doesn’t need his shower micromanaged.

He sticks his hand beneath the stream, wincing when even the lukewarm water splashing against the back of his wrist stings. He turns it down to something he hopes will be appropriately cool, per Dr. Boo’s orders, and focuses on undressing. The scrape of sand against skin as he pulls off his shirt is unexpectedly painful. This must be the beginning of the promised suffering. He piles his clothes in a heap on the floor and, with one final, regretful test of the water that is definitely going to be _cold_ no matter how he approaches it, he steps into the shower.

There’s really no way to do this right. Being so un-uniformly burnt means that some part of him is bound to be uncomfortable no matter what he does. He can rinse his arms and shoulders well enough, if he steps away from the showerhead, and his legs aren’t too bad either, but trying to cool down his face or chest leaves the rest of him in contact with the bitingly sharp chill of the water.

He washes as best as he can—if he’s going to suffer, he may as well be _clean_ —but he’s shivering horribly by the time he steps out of the shower, feeling every bit as feverish as Seungkwan had been worried about.

“I’m an idiot,” he mutters, cautiously toweling off and pulling on his boxers and shorts, “definitely an idiot.” He uses the towel to wipe a section of fog from the bathroom mirror. His face, ears, and shoulders look even worse than they had before, but he wonders if that’s just because they actually _hurt_ now.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter.

He flips the cap open on the aloe, squeezing a generous amount into his palm and using the fingers of his other hand to gently dab it onto his cheeks. It feels blessedly cool—a strange response, considering he’s still shivering—and he continues across the bridge of his nose, down his face, back up to his ears, onto his shoulders, his chest…

By the time he’s done with both arms, he considers not even bothering with his legs out of respect for Seungkwan’s aloe supply. But when he crouches to collect his dirty laundry, he nearly gasps with the pain of skin stretching to accommodate the movement, so in the end he covers those burns, too.

He pulls his t-shirt on carefully, trying to avoid losing any aloe in the process. He feels _sticky_ , and hot, and cold, and tired, and a little sorry for himself. He rinses his hands, willing his self-pity to wash down the drain as well, before gathering his things and heading out.

Judging by the muffled sound of voices, everyone must still be outside. Jihoon considers the merits of joining them. For one, the sun is already well on its way down. Also, the air conditioning in the house, while probably not set all that low, is making his chills exponentially worse. And he’s already sort of lonely. The shouts and laughter echoing through the otherwise empty space give it a sad, hollow quality.

Or maybe that’s just his sort-of-kind-of-not-really-a-fever talking.

He _is_ , admittedly, reluctant to be seen like this, all red and patchy and slimy with aloe. However, he knows two things about his members:

1\. News spreads quickly, so they’re already perfectly aware of what’s happened, and it’s not like he’ll have to _explain_.

and

2\. They love him, so they’ll go light on the teasing if he looks miserable enough.

(And if he looks anywhere near as miserable as he _feels_ , he’s probably in the clear.)

Mind made up, he drops his clothes off in the bedroom he’s sharing with Seungcheol and Wonwoo and heads through the hall, the kitchen, and the living room, opening the sliding door to the deck.

All eyes are on him the second he steps outside. He hadn’t expected anything different, really, but there’s a palpable moment of awkwardness until Soonyoung—bless his loud, excitable soul—shouts, “Jihoonie-yah! You’re just in time for fireworks!”

He’s holding a box of jumbo-sized sparkers—nearly 60 centimeters in length, it looks like—with large letters on the packaging promising fountains of neon sparks.

Tension broken, Jihoon smiles back. “Do your thing. I’ll watch.”

Soonyoung puts his hands on his hips like some sort of disappointed mother figure, but acquiesces pretty quickly. “Yeah, I guess it would be more than a little sting if you got hit… In that case, performance team has you covered!” He announces this last part to the entire group, beaming widely at the perfunctory round of applause that follows.

Upon Seungcheol’s stern, _stern_ orders, Soonyoung and his merry band of performers—plus Seokmin, Mingyu, and Seungkwan—head out into the sand before actually lighting anything on fire. About halfway through an incredibly questionable, incredibly _sparkly_ rendition of _VERY NICE_ , Jihoon feels a hand against the small of his back.

“You okay?” it’s Seungcheol, come to join him by the railing. Their leader tends to dole out a lot of physical contact when he’s trying to comfort one of his members, but he’s obviously trying to be considerate of Jihoon’s literal _everything_.

It’s a stupid thing to get emotional over, but Jihoon will once again blame his sort-of-kind-of-not-really-a-fever for any unbidden feelings.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he replies, focusing on Mingyu as he tries and fails to execute a cartwheel in the sand.

“Seungkwan said painkillers every six hours, and lots of hydration, and aloe for healing, and cool, damp towels in between to help with inflammation,” Seungcheol rattles off as though he’d been practicing. Committing such a mundane list like this to memory is one of the odd ways he shows he cares.

“I know, I got it from the source,” Jihoon says—although he hadn’t been informed about the towels thing. It sounds like it might be marginally less awful than the shower, though. He can’t remember the last time he’d been burnt badly enough to need such careful handling.

“You really did a number on yourself,” Seungcheol continues, and Jihoon doesn’t have to look up to know he’s frowning.

“I _know_ , hyung,” he grouses, resting his chin atop the wood of the railing. He’s trying not to be openly cranky because it _is_ his own fault, but he already doesn’t feel well and he’s _not_ in the mood to be lectured.

Seungcheol can be a nag, but he also sometimes knows when to let things go. He’s silent for a moment before suddenly asking, “Do you want an ice pop?”

Jihoon glances upward, startled by the change in topic. “What?”

“We had ice pops after dinner, while you were in the shower,” he elaborates. “Do you want one? There’s almost half a box left.”

Jihoon isn’t particularly in the mood for something sweet, but it’s summer, it’s warm out (even though his body can’t seem to decide whether it wants to be hot or cold), and it would probably be good for the hydration everyone in the group is apparently going to badger him about until the end of time. “Sure,” he replies, “in the freezer?”

“I’ll grab you one,” Seungcheol immediately offers, and before Jihoon can protest, “Someone’s trying to get your attention.”

He turns back toward the sand, and it’s true—Seokmin is waving two streaming sparklers madly in his direction. Jihoon thinks he might be trying to form a heart. It’s very poorly shaped, but charming in its enthusiasm, so he does the only logical thing he can think of and cups his own hands together in a reciprocal heart.

Seokmin laughs this beautiful, obnoxious, sunshiny laugh. Smiling too hard makes Jihoon’s cheeks hurt, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care.

“Do you want grape, orange, raspberry, or cherry?” Seungcheol’s voice has its own lilt of mirth to it.

“Surprise me,” Jihoon responds, watching in amusement as Seokmin recruits Chan to try and do the same thing for Joshua, standing at the other end of the deck.

Seungcheol is back before they manage to get a good reaction out of Joshua, but he's visibly shaking trying to contain his laughter, so it’s probably only a matter of seconds. Seungcheol presses the ice pop against the back of Jihoon’s neck, startling him badly and earning himself a smack on the arm for his troubles.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be messing with you,” he apologizes, although Jihoon has already forgiven him, preoccupied with removing the wrapper. The popsicle is red—either cherry or raspberry. Though he’d said it didn’t matter, he hopes for raspberry.

It _is_ raspberry.

He must look pleased or something, because Seungcheol is giving him this annoyingly fond smile. But it’s fine, Jihoon figures, watching as Chan chases after Seungkwan with a sparkler. The ice pop gives him something to do, the kids on the sand give him something to look at, and he can momentarily pretend he isn’t an idiot of massive self-sabotaging proportions.

* * *

  
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

Popsicle gone, sparklers depleted, and sun fully, completely set, everyone slowly makes their way back into the house. They play rock-paper-scissors to determine showering order, and while there are three full baths available, Jihoon is grateful he doesn’t have to wait his turn. There’s talk of watching a movie or maybe playing some kind of game, but he isn’t up for it. The too-hot-too-cold shivery feeling is back in full force, and all he really wants to do is lie down.

He hadn’t been trying to sneak away, exactly, but he’s still surprised when Mingyu abruptly appears in the bedroom with him. Judging by the apologetic look on his face, Jihoon can guess he’s on a mission.

Sure enough, “Seungkwan said to tell you to drink another glass of water before bed, and that you should do the cool towel thing and reapply aloe.” He’s holding a small stack of towels in his arms, along with the aloe and the bottle of ibuprofen. “You can take three more pills after one AM, too, if you wake up.”

But Jihoon is tired _now_.

He’s _tired_ , and stuff _hurts_ , and he wants to be left _alone_.

He’s self-aware enough to know that his own increasing irritability isn’t Mingyu’s fault. It isn’t Seungkwan’s fault, either. This extra nagging feels overbearing and aggravating, but he knows everyone is being subtly recruited to try to make him feel _better_ , and the inner part of him that wants to tell Mingyu to _'get out'_ won’t help anything in the long run.

In the _short run_ , though…

He takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He sees Mingyu tense from the corner of his eye, and another little spike of guilt—similar to the one he’d felt earlier with Seungkwan—makes itself known.

A second deep breath, and on the exhale he says, “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I should. Thanks.”

Mingyu stares. Blinks. Stares some more. Opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to say, “…He also said I should take your temperature?”

Jihoon snorts. He really never misses a beat. “Okay, fine, yeah. Do you have the thermometer?”

Mingyu nods, unearthing it from his stack of towels. He hands it over, watching as Jihoon turns it on and sticks it beneath his tongue. “Do you want to do the towels next? I can make them wet in the kitchen sink,” he offers.

Jihoon shrugs, then nods, unable to reply verbally. Mingyu leaves the room, and Jihoon can’t tell if he’s imagining a certain lightness to his step that hadn’t been there before.

The thermometer seems to be taking longer, but he can’t make out the numbers, too small to read cross-eyed. It beeps just as Mingyu returns, his once pristine stack of towels reduced to an armful of damp laundry.

“What is it?” he asks, laying one dry towel beneath the others to protect the bed from getting soaked.

Jihoon squints at the screen. “38.2.”

That _is_ a fever—at least, according to the textbook definition—and Mingyu looks concerned. “That’s higher than earlier, isn’t it? Do you feel worse than before?”

“A little,” Jihoon confesses, seeing no point in lying. “Nothing really hurt then, but it does now. And I have these stupid chills. _But_ —” he starts, trying to head off Mingyu’s worry train, “—Seungkwan said that was normal. I’m just uncomfortable.”

Mingyu looks like he’s trying to decide whether or not to believe him. Jihoon nods, and nods, and nods again, vigorously, until he finally cracks a grin. “Okay, hyung, if you’re sure. I guess you need your shirt off for this?” he gestures toward the towels.

Jihoon grimaces, but there’s no way around it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he _slowly_ tries to peel his t-shirt off.

But the aloe, healing as it might be, is making things a lot stickier and more complicated than they have to be, and he can’t seem to keep the neckline from pulling painfully at his ears while also holding the fabric away from his chest. Then he _gasps_ —a sharp, agonized little intake of air—when he lifts his arm _just_ the wrong way in an attempt to remove the sleeve, and—

There are hands on his bare sides, suddenly, warm against undamaged skin. His shirt is still pulled over his face, but it couldn’t be anyone other than Mingyu.

“Hyung, can I—do you need help?”

Frustration flares. He doesn’t need help. He doesn’t _want_ help.

But he’s in _pain_ , he knows Mingyu is doing the best he can, and he’d _just_ told himself he wasn’t going to be an asshole about this. “ _Please_ ,” he grits out, humiliated but also just desperate for it to be over.

“Okay, can you—” Mingyu tugs gently at the collar of his shirt, “—put your arms out in front of you? Does that hurt?”

It doesn’t, and he allows Mingyu to slowly pull the shirt the rest of the way over his head—cautious of his face and ears—and down, sliding easily off his arms.

“Okay,” Mingyu breathes a sigh of relief, and Jihoon is finally able to unclench his jaw. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon replies, although he wishes he could just go to sleep instead of dealing with this right now.

“Ready for the towels?”

He isn’t, but he nods, lying back with his hands flat against the mattress. It’s an unpleasantly vulnerable position. He hates everything about this.

Mingyu unfolds the first towel—a regular-sized bath towel—and lays it across his legs. Jihoon had expected it to be painful, but it instead brings such an instant rush of relief that his breath catches in his throat. Mingyu must hear it, because his head shoots up. “Sorry—are you okay?”

Jihoon nods, only slightly mortified. “Yeah. It’s actually nice.”

Mingyu looks pleased, going back to adjusting the towel so it comes in contact with the maximum amount of skin. He then does the same thing with a towel across Jihoon’s upper chest and shoulders. Another smaller one for each arm, and then, finally, one laid across his face, soothingly cool against both cheeks.

“Sorry for covering your eyes,” he apologizes, as though any of this could possibly be his fault.

“It’s fine,” Jihoon assures him, less perturbed by the vulnerability now that his discomfort has lessened. The rest of him is still stupidly cold, though, and he shudders, annoyed with his body’s inability to make up its mind.

Unable to see, he jolts when something warm is unexpectedly draped over his lap and stomach. It’s some kind of fabric, he thinks, too small to be a blanket, although he can’t move his hands to feel exactly _what_.

“It’s my hoodie,” Mingyu explains, before he has a chance to ask. “You seemed cold. Well, I mean, you _have_ to be cold, right? You’re shivering.”

He can’t tell if the wetness he feels at the corners of his eyes is because of the towel or the fever or the sunburn or _what_ , but Jihoon suddenly doesn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he gives Mingyu—lamely, without moving his arm—a thumbs-up.

Mingyu laughs. “I’ll be gone just a minute, hyung, I’m gonna get you some water.”

Jihoon is asleep by the time he gets back.

* * *

  
Mingyu does eventually, unfortunately have to rouse him. Jihoon understands this, as much as he detests it. He’d slept for about fifteen minutes, which is at least _something_. He drinks the water and gratefully accepts Mingyu’s offer of a clean t-shirt, since the only other one he’d packed would be far too restrictive to sleep in now. He heads into the bathroom after Joshua finishes up, reapplying the aloe and brushing his teeth in preparation for what he hopes will be several solid hours of unconsciousness.

Unconsciousness has yet to come by the time his roommates have settled in for the night, but it will soon, he’s sure of it.

He’s sure.

He’s—

He’s _freezing_ , is what he is. The blanket on his bed had been too warm at first—nearly sweltering, with his body radiating heat like a furnace—but now he is absolutely, positively _freezing_.

With the lights off and the sound of everyone else’s peaceful breathing filling the room, he has to bite his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering. He wants to put his sweatshirt on. He wants to burrow under ten more blankets. He wants to, at the very _least_ , curl up on his side to try to preserve body heat—but he can’t even do _that_ , because his burnt shoulders make any motion in either direction an agonizing affair.

Maybe he should just get up. If he waits until one, he can take another dose of ibuprofen. That might take the edge off.

It’s only just past 11:30 now, though. Since when had SEVENTEEN turned into a bunch of geriatrics who go to bed before midnight?

He pushes back the covers, sliding out of bed ever-so-slowly to avoid causing himself pain or disturbing his roommates. After unplugging his phone, he creeps out through the kitchen and into the living room. The big floor-to-ceiling windows cast the iridescent light of the moon over every surface. He’s not really in the mood to appreciate nature’s beauty at the moment, but it’s calming enough that he figures this is as good a place as any to sit for a while before making another attempt at sleep.

Except he quickly realizes he’s not alone.

Someone is seated at the far end of the sofa, almost where the light doesn’t reach. They’re awake—looking at something on their phone. It’s kind of hard to tell, with the way the light and shadows warp the room, but as Jihoon steps closer, he hazards a guess, “Vernonie?”

It _is_ , in fact, Hansol, who whips his head up immediately at the sound. “Oh, hi, hyung,” he greets, removing one earbud, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I just did,” Jihoon explains, hoping he isn’t intruding when Hansol would rather be left alone.

But there’s no reason for concern, because a grin forms on Hansol’s face. “Me neither. I’m watching these—I had to come out here, because I kept making myself laugh, and I thought Chan was gonna kill me. You wanna see?”

Curiosity piqued, Jihoon sits on the middle cushion, unable to avoid a flinch as Hansol bumps shoulders in an effort to let them both see the screen.

“Oh, shi—sorry. That hurts?”

“A little.”

Hansol gives him a _look_ —unusual, especially from him. “I burn super easy, hyung, so I know. You don’t have to downplay it.”

Jihoon considers his options, then goes for honesty. “Okay. A lot.”

Hansol nods, seemingly satisfied. “Here, so you gotta—you don’t mind sharing an earbud?” Jihoon shakes his head. “Okay, so come closer. Since you’re not burnt on your back, if you put your shoulder in front of mine like this…” Jihoon allows himself to be gently maneuvered until he’s nearly in Hansol’s lap. With his back to Hansol’s chest like this, he may as well be. But it doesn’t hurt, and Hansol is much warmer than the sofa on its own.

They’re nearly cheek-to-cheek like this, though, and apparently Hansol can feel Jihoon’s body heat as well. “You’re super warm, hyung. Seungkwan said you have a fever?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Just a low one. It’s annoying, though. I’m _freezing_.”

“I can tell—you’re really shivering.” He’s right, of course. Jihoon hasn’t _stopped_ shivering since he left the bedroom. He’s too tired to even be embarrassed by this point. “Here, do you want this?” Hansol offers, producing a fleece blanket from the arm of the couch beside himself. “It’s probably not good if you’re _too_ warm, but shivering until you’re exhausted can’t be good for you either, right?”

Something between the light blanket and the warmth of another human beside him is exactly the thing Jihoon’s fried temperature regulation system had wanted, apparently, because he stops trembling less than a minute after Hansol drapes the blanket over his body.

“Success?” he asks, holding out an earbud.

“I think so,” Jihoon answers, baffled but incredibly relieved. He takes the earbud, careful not to hurt his burnt outer ear as he inserts it. “What are we watching?”

“Fancams,” Hansol tells him, before quickly adding, “Not _mine._ Or anyone’s in particular. It’s just that I found a couple videos where people put together the best of our fancams—the best parts or whatever—and they’re great. Just _so_ good, you know? The faces we make are so stupid sometimes. But it’s fun. We’re fun. If that makes sense…?”

Jihoon certainly isn’t going to insult his YouTube tastes _now_ , of all times. Plus, it could be interesting. At the very least, it’s always cool to see what’s going on inside CARAT's heads. The fans are often as weird and creative and hilarious as the group itself. Jihoon likes that about them.

They spend the next twenty minutes laughing at Jeonghan flirting terribly with a camera, Mingyu trying and failing to look sultry during a taping of _Snap Shoot_ , and Hansol himself looking panicked when he’d forgotten to take a breath where one was _desperately_ needed, among others. Performances Jihoon remembers being a part of but would never think to look back on—at least, not in this format.

It’s nice. It takes his mind off of things. Hansol soon gets a text, ‘PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP’ courtesy of Jeonghan, followed by a much kinder, ‘Here, watch these instead~’ from Jun, with about a dozen links to videos of kittens. Apparently they’d been louder than they’d thought.

“Huh,” is Hansol’s only comment, “do you wanna switch to kittens?”

“Sure,” Jihoon agrees, “why not?”

They get through an entire fifteen minute long video of kittens playing in the grass for the first time—and another ten or so into one where they’re meeting some ducklings—before Jihoon’s eyelids start to feel really heavy.

He should get up. He has a whole bed waiting for him, and he doesn’t want to put Hansol in the awkward position of having to shake his pathetically sunburnt hyung awake once _he_ finally decides to go to bed.

But as things are now, he’s relaxed and warm and nothing really hurts beyond a dull ache. He doesn’t want to move. He has to move. But he doesn’t want to. He hums—a frustrated, almost involuntary noise—trying to will himself into motion.

Hansol looks down. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m falling _asleep_ ,” he groans, again willing his limbs to carry him away without actually requiring any effort on his part.

“So?”

It’s Jihoon’s turn to look up. “So I don’t wanna trap you here underneath my sleeping body.”

Hansol shrugs. A kitten gives a duckling an experimental bat with its paw. “I’m not going anywhere. I slept earlier today, too—and I _didn’t_ get sunburnt, so I’m wide awake. I’ll probably be out here for hours. If you’re comfy, just sleep.”

Jihoon is pretty sure he’s never heard a more perfect, more melodious string of words in his entire life. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“Positive,” Hansol pauses the video. “I don’t mind. You’re gonna be miserable crammed into the car with everyone tomorrow, anyway, so you might as well get some rest now.”

Jihoon had _completely_ forgotten about the ride home. Maybe he can beg someone into trading him a front seat. But Hansol is right, and his offer at the moment is too good to pass up.

“You should lie down,” Hansol suggests. “There’s a pillow over there—” he gestures toward the other end of the couch, “—so if you put your head in the middle and your legs in my lap, you can stay warm without me accidentally elbowing you in the face or something.”

Hansol deserves the world, and Jihoon is going to figure out how to give it to him.

The moving part hurts—everything hurts, and aches, and pulls, and stings—but it only takes him about a minute to get into a comfortable position again. Hansol notes his burnt shins as he adjusts the blanket once more, saying, “If anything I do hurts you, let me know.”

Jihoon doesn’t have the words to describe his utter adoration for their second youngest. Instead—just as he’d done with Mingyu—he offers a completely lame thumbs-up.

Hansol snorts. “Night, hyung,” he says, putting in his other earbud and turning back to his phone.

Jihoon wonders if he’s still watching kittens, or if he’d gone back to fancams.

He feels Hansol jolt with a suppressed laugh. He’d like to think it was the kittens. Although, if it was at the members—hell, even if it was at Jihoon _himself_ —that would be okay, too.

He dreams of the sound of waves, sand beneath his feet, the shade of an umbrella, and the smell of sunscreen.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments/thoughts are greatly appreciated. <3


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